silver stepping stones
by escapiism
Summary: "Let's run away. I don't care where it is we're going, I just want to go. Let's just go, and stay there forever." So they run, and they run, and they don't stop.
**a/n:** Fluff, sort of. Angst, sort of. This is just a one-shot I started a while back, but never got round finishing until today. It started off short, I assure you, but slowly turned into a monster. A tad AU, as Ali isn't as forgiving (which to be honest, I think is more realistic—I mean, yes, she is your sister, but _still_.) Also, I'm British, and my knowledge of America is short, so if I get anything wrong, I am terribly sorry. (I also have no idea where Pepperdine is, but I looked it up and it said it was in Malibu. I also don't know if it rains in Malibu, but this is fanfiction, so…)

 **summary:** "Let's run away. I don't care where it is we're going, I just want to go. Let's just go, and stay there forever." So they run, and they run, and they don't stop. —emily/alison, post s6a, and the many hardships they must face

 **warning:** T for language.

* * *

 **silver stepping stones**

* * *

 _she belongs to fairytales  
that i could never be  
 **— trading yesterday**_

* * *

Alison likes to watch the sunset. It's a beautiful sight, like an oil painting, a fairytale, a happy ending—the lights are all incandescent in the way she loves it to be, and the orange meets the red as the pink meets the white, and then they coalesce, and a fire starts.

She has this book, at the back of one of her silver cupboards (the one her dad started to paint when she was seven years old, but never got round to finishing), and it's filled with those beautiful sights, those oil paintings, those fairytales, those happy endings. The labyrinthine splashes of each and every shade of red and orange and yellow claim each page—it's the way it is, intricate, tortuous, but perfect all the same. Green, blue and purple blinks up at her, twisting, turning through and around each letter, a _b_ , a _g_ , an _a_.

Most of the time, she ignores life. (Most of the time, she fails, because some things can't just be left alone. Except her—always her.)

One by one, like little toy soldiers, they are knocked off their feet by the simplest of breezes. They leave, because life has reached its limits. Her father is first, his hatred for dealing with things getting the better of him—he takes off, because he's just _sick_ of the world and all its means and all its colours, fading, black-and-white, grey. He leaves, and Ali knows he has every reason to, but he leaves _her_ , and Jason, and Charlotte, to swim in his trail of devastation, alone. But Jason follows soon afterwards ( _"I'm sorry, Ali, I am, I am—but if I stay here one more second, I think I'll do something stupid, like kill myself, or get—"_ , Ali interrupted with, " _I know."_ ). So Jason leaves, and her world turns even more lifeless than it ever could be.

Like her silver cupboards, they leave things incomplete. That's just how DiLaurentises roll, though, right? They leave things unattended to, because they just can't stand it anymore. That's why her mom died, that's why they left. (It's why _Alison_ left, too. And it's why she came back. _Sick_ , _sick_ , _sick_. She was sick of hiding; she was sick of running.)

Ali doesn't visit Charlotte anymore. She wants to, and the regret piles up on her soul, and tugs, and tugs, and tugs, but she doesn't listen to herself anymore, so she forgets it all—it's easier that way. Ali doesn't visit Charlotte anymore, even if she misses her so much it hurts, but because sometimes— _sometimes_ —you can't forgive everyone for everything they've done.

Ali doesn't visit Charlotte anymore, because _she_ is leaving, too. Ali doesn't visit Charlotte anymore, because of the way Charlotte oh so feebly calls out her name when she does, in a voice so raspy, and weak, ( _"Ali, I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'll do anything_ ," and this time Alison _doesn't_ interrupt, because she has nothing to say, because she _can't_ forgive, and forget).

Instead, she watches as the fire moves from left to right, from top to bottom, inside, and out, taking the colours with it. The flames roar, and crackle, and singe her skin, even if there's nothing there; Ali let's herself burn, and burn, and burn with the memories, because for now, it's better than living.

(Anything's better than leaving.)

She doesn't pack much. Some money, some pictures, her book of gold, and blue nail polish is what will last her for a lifetime. She doesn't care that the money will run out one day, or the pictures and the book will fade one day, or the blue nail polish will end up in someone else's suitcase one day. She doesn't care, she doesn't (she never has; she never will).

Alison watches the sunset one last time, and then, she leaves.

There are many brochures—Tokyo, Madrid, London. She considers each one—maybe she'll go after her father, settling down in Ireland. Maybe she'll go after Jason, in Brazil, somewhere. Maybe.

She walks past that see-through column, and instead picks out a leaflet with a pretty picture of beach, with waves all _splish splashing_ , and the children all playing and having fun. _Malibu_ , she thinks. (And she promises herself that she's not going there because she wants to see Emily.

But all a promise is, is a lie you only _wish_ to keep.)

 **::**

She decides not to waste her money for a simple ten-hour journey, so she takes a bus.

Alison gives her seat up to an elderly lady with almost no hair, and a walking stick on the verge of breaking. _I spent the whole of high school torturing people_ , she thinks, _this is my chance to turn things around_. It's not— _it's not_ —because it's something selfless, lovely, lovely Emily would do. It's not— _it's not_ —because it's what Emily would want her to do, like back in tenth grade, whenever she'd give Ali that look of censure as she'd pick on Hefty Hanna, or prim, prissy Spencer, or Aria's pink streaks. It's not— _it's not_ —because of any of that. ( _Promise, promise, lie, lie_.)

She takes another bus, and another bus, and another bus after that. Once she's finally reached the Malibu area, she takes one more bus to the hearth, and starts fresh from there.

She tries not to think about life. (But it's hard, if that's all you have.)

Alison walks to Pepperdine University. That's when it starts to rain, when she's made it all the way to Fifth Street, the rain, it pours down, grey, grey, grey (like how her father left her), and so fucking lifeless (like how Jason left her).

She runs, and she feels her bag clash with her knee, the edges of the picture book, the blue nail polish thrashed about, and the pictures that are probably dead now. She runs, and she runs, and doesn't stop.

She runs into campus, past the cars, past the trees—she runs, and she runs, and doesn't stop. The reception, it is not so far off, and so she runs there, through the doors, regardless of whatever the time is, or whatever the rules are because she just _doesn't care_. (And this time, she can't promise herself that it's not for Emily.)

" _Who are you?_ " asks the secretary.

" _I'm…"_ She stops, and in a stolen moment, looks around—she looks around, seeing the glass panes, and the many medals held captive behind them. She looks around and sees it all, the photographs, the colours, all of it. The secretary repeats her question, and she is left only more speechless, because she _doesn't_ _know_ who she is—not anymore. " _I'm Matilda. I'm from the college down Burden Grove. I'm visiting an old friend of mine_."

Nostalgia runs through her veins as the lies roll of her tongue like they are made to be. They are, aren't they? Alison DiLaurentis is a liar—it's what she was then, what she is now, and all she'll ever be.

" _Name of student_?"

This one is easier. " _Emily Fields_."

 **::**

She sleeps outside. Her old habits are dying (she can't lie anymore), and the longing feeling to see Emily only increases. She sleeps outside, as night falls, and she thinks over her life because that's the only she can do. The moments, the littlest of ones—the ones that make her everything. (Like kissing Emily, and kissing Emily, and kissing Emily.)

" _What are you doing out in the cold?"_

Alison turns over onto the pavement, and blocks out the sound.

" _Ali_ ," the voice repeats, a silvery tingle that stirs her awakenings. " _Ali, it's me_."

" _No, it isn't,"_ she mumbles mindlessly from the hood of her coat. " _It isn't you."_

 _"But it is,_ " Pause. One so deafening that Ali's eyes flutter open. " _It's me, Emily."_

Within a heartbeat, she is up on her feet, crying into her shoulder. She lets it all out, and Emily is there to help her do that, because there is so much to haunt her, she needs someone—she needs _Emily_.

 _"The secretary isn't_ all _bad, you know,"_ Emily whispers into her hair. _"She just likes the odd prank."_

 _"Oh, Emily_ ," Alison grips onto her shoulders harder, and each demon bites, then dies, because Emily is her shield, her defense, and nothing will come to her and hurt her ever again. " _Emily, Emily,"_ Her name is more like a warrior chant—she is fighting, she is fighting, but this time, she is winning.

(But defenses are built, only to be knocked down, right?)

" _You're really cold_ ," she says. " _Come with me."_

Emily holds out her hand, and Ali takes it.

 **::**

The reason why make-believe makes the whole world spin, is because things happen in such a way that it _can't_ be true. The endless possibilities bring a thrill to life, and so you are lead to believe that they _do_ happen, because that's what you wish would happen. It's like a lie. Once you believe it, it becomes the truth.

" _What on earth are you doing here, Alison?_ " Emily throws at her the moment they are inside, away from the cold. _"Why aren't you in Rosewood with… with Charlotte? How did you find me? Why did you find me?"_

Ali shakes her head.

" _Alison_ …"

Ali shakes her head once more.

" _Ali, you can—"_

 _"Let's run away_ ," Alison interrupts her before any more damage is done. " _I don't care where it is we're going, I just want to go. Let's just go, and stay there forever."_

And Emily stares at her as if she's gone mad, and she has—she's delusional. She always has been. (And that's the reason she's here. Only Emily can keep her sane. Sane _enough_.)

" _Forever,"_ Emily repeats, the rush overwhelming Ali like a silent prayer, her mouth moving in a formation that Alison wants to shrink down, because the tone of her voice makes Ali want to shrivel up—Emily doesn't love her. She thought she did, but she doesn't. This was a mistake.

With a small smile, and a quick nod of her head, Emily props up an eyebrow, and stares deep into Alison's Pacific eyes. " _I think_ ," Emily starts. _"I think I like the sound of that."_

 **::**

" _You can take the window side_ , _because I know you love sitting there,_ " Alison whispers in her ear as they board the plane. _"And hold my hand when we take off. Please."_

 _"Are you_ still _scared of flying?"_ grins Emily, as she nods.

Clouds are very strange—from down below, they seem so rich, so thick, in a sense that they seem imperishable, yet above, when you see it all, it shatters. It shatters down, because things are not at all what they seem.

They are a few metres off the ground when Alison lets out a small shriek of fear, and her insides clench and thrash about. Emily's hand reaches her, and then finally, it all stops.

" _I'm okay,"_ she breathes, jostled. " _I'm all okay_."

Emily laughs again, and squeezes her hand. _"Yes, you're all okay."_

They exchange a look. " _We're crazy_." (And don't they know it.)

A few hours later, they land in the airport of Berlin, breathless and euphoric from the feeling of escaping, being free.

 _"I love Germany_ ," Emily says, as they bounce on the bed in tank tops and yoga pants, swishing the black, red, yellow flag about in the air. _"I've never been, though. But I love Germany—I mean, yodeling, dungarees—"_

 _"I don't think Germans yodel,"_ Alison giggles, as she slides into bed next to her. _"And not all of them are like Mr Burns, Em."_

Ali makes sure Emily doesn't miss out on _all_ her education, despite wheeling her off into the great unknown, and they revisit history—the war, the Berlin Wall, everything. It's like back in ninth grade, when they visited that lighthouse, how Emily picked on the smallest of details, and asked questions that whirled the world around, and how Alison did her best to answer them, because she was used to superiority, but failed each time. Emily took it in, though, each time, as if everything was correct. As if everything she said was true.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it is.

" _Ali_ ," says Emily, on day four. _"Do you… you know… ever think about… Rosewood?"_

Alison averts her gaze away, and immediately looks down. " _All the time,"_ Ali pauses. " _But I try not to, you know. Sometimes. But… it's pretty hard."_

She then shakes everything off.

 _"I did my research, by the way, while you were taking your shower,"_ Alison smiles a brave smile. " _I was thinking… England."_

Then, as she sees Emily's lips creep up into a smile, Alison looks out, into the wilderness. In Germany, the sun sets a little different, but it is still the same oil painting is it back in _Rosewood_ , and it still is the answer to her every question.

 **::**

Once they're off the plane, they take a black taxi, and talk about the girls.

Hanna, in New York, with Caleb; Aria taking off into art, at Savannah; Spencer going down the lawyer road, in Princeton. Life is a miracle, it really, because it's a wonder that they all survived. Hanna's more in love than ever with Caleb, and she's doing what she loves—fashion. Aria's being the artsy, creative girl she is, off doodling off walls, sculpturing, photographing. And Spencer, immaculate Spencer Hastings, being the Spencer she is, being the Spencer she always will be.

Ali misses them—it starts with a small pang in her stomach, which escalates to a few tears lingering in her eyes, and they spill down, because Ali lets them spill down. Emily, once again, takes her hand. _That's the second time you've saved me in a week, you know_ , Ali sings to herself, as Emily kisses her forehead.

 _"We need to go on the London Eye_ ," exclaims Emily, as they get off the vehicle. They look around and see the clusters of people as they walk down the zebra crossing, yellow lights flashing, fingers intertwined. It's a beautiful sight, because they are all so _happy_.

 _"And go to Harrods, of course,"_ grins Ali.

" _The girls would be_ so _jealous,"_ Emily says, as they carry on walking, past the circular benches, and the violin players. " _I mean, London is brimming with art, and fashion—goddamn, the fashion! And Spencer would love to visit Big Ben. And Buckingham Palace."_

 _"You're right,"_ Alison agrees, because that's what they would love—she knows exactly where they'd go if they were here with them, right here, right now. She knows Aria, and Spencer, and Hanna all too well. And she misses them, she really, really does. _"They'd love it here, in London."_

 _"We should go all over London,"_ Emily says in utter awe. " _They held the Olympics here last year, you know?"_

Alison nods, but _no_ , she _doesn't_ know, because last year, the whole of last year, she spent running, and hiding, and betraying, and lying. But she nods anyway, because she doesn't want to ruin this picture-perfect moment. It's all perfect, and she wants it to stay perfect.

 **::**

They wonder when their money will run out. They wonder, but no words are exchanged about the topic, because once they start worrying about it out loud, it becomes a part of them. Right now, they both don't want that, so they stay in the old _Renaissance_ hotel next to Heathrow, painting each other's nails blue, laughing about everything, reading old fairytales, and fighting the very urge to kiss each other.

 _"This one is my favourite_ ," Ali remarks as they slide into bed again, a vivid lampshade blazing from beside them. " _The princess and the frog. It shows the most emotion. To me, anyway. Aside, kissing the frog and everything, it paints the nicest picture."_

Emily nods, no words uttered, because they are all caught up in her throat.

" _Can I read you a part?"_ asks Ali. Emily gives her a nod, and so she turns the page, and does just that. _"'Like all the countless times before, the princess declined his offer, and started to walk away. The frog tried to stop her, and he told her about the golden ball, and how she'd never get it back otherwise. But still the princess kept walking away from him, and so he had to let her go'."_

Pause. Pause. Pause.

" _'The next day, the princess returned to the well, and saw the frog once more. She told him that she was thinking about the kiss—the frog looked up at her, hopeful, but she only laughed in his face',"_ Alison reads on. "' _It was a while until she finally agreed to kiss the frog, but—'" She_

She is stopped, as lips collide, an incarnation is complete, and Alison has never felt so salient, and powerful. Emily's lips move away for a split second, and a look crosses her face, showing question, but Ali only pulls her in closer, a kiss more impassioning, and demanding than ever.

 **::**

They forget it happened—they are once again out of England, and have long landed in Genève. She holds onto Emily's hand, like a normal friend would, and forgets that she ever loved her _like that_. She forgets that they ever kissed _like that_. (Oh, who is she kidding?)

 _"Have you ever been skiing?"_ queries Emily, as they trod on through the snow.

 _"Yes. Once,"_ Alison winces at her own words. " _It was our last proper family holiday—I thought it was pretty fun, but I guess I remembered it differently. Jason said…"_ Ali trails off, because she's thinking about them again, the little toy soldiers who abandoned her when things got more than _not_ simple.

" _Alison_ ," Emily kisses her mane, and soothes her down as Ali starts to sob—she's a wreck, really, she's sobbing, and it's a wreck, and _she… can't… breathe_. " _What happened back in Rosewood that made you… leave?"_

 _"They left first,_ " murmurs Ali. " _My dad, then Jason. They left."_

(And what a disaster it was—all grey, all lifeless, with nothing left…)

Emily doesn't kiss her lips again, but instead, her soft lips brush against the lower part of cheek, and Alison has to fight so very hard to not crane her head to the right, and allow their lips to once again mingle, to once again find comfort, find power.

They forget, and Christmas comes around the corner. They lace their hands around each others, as they stand with padded coats and scarves and gloves on the top of the snowy mountain, grinning like a pair of fools.

" _Ready?"_ giggles Emily. And before Ali can even reply, she pulls her off the ledge with her, skiing down as soon as they break contact with the snow. They scream, inevitably, but in the moment, they _don't_ care, and it's such an amazing feeling, not caring about a thing in the world.

 **::**

Emily falls in love in Switzerland, Alison could swear on it.

It's way past Christmas, and well into January (it's the longest they've stayed in one place, about two hours in Malibu, four days in Berlin, seven weeks in London), and Ali knows that it's not because they are getting too attached to the country, and the lack of controversy and _pressure_ , but it's because Emily has fallen in love.

Her name is _Mikyla Henry_ , and she's American, with glossy chestnut hair, and emerald green eyes, and the tendency to look perfect _at all times_. She's the kind of girl Emily would fall in love with—not the kind who betrays you, and lies to you, and manipulates you. Not the kind who makes you feel the exact opposite of what you would suppose to feel like.

Ali doesn't hate Mikyla—not exactly. And deep, deep inside, in the pits of her soul, Alison knows that Mikyla has that mutual feeling that brinks on friendship and non-friendship.

Mikyla gives them all an opportunity to move on from Switzerland and all its golden landmarks, to Australia. Emily blindly follows after her, and so Alison blindly follows after _Emily_. She wishes that it's just the two of them, like in Malibu, like in Germany, like in England, and like in Genève. But it isn't, and Ali's stuck with being the third wheel, and the clenching fear of losing her.

Australia makes the world seem funny—it's January, and yet it's summer, and people splash about in the seas, and make sandcastles, and have ice lollies. The sun sets again, just like it used to, and the clouds disappear. Life becomes easier. Days become shorter. The fear long hidden emerges, and become something much, much bigger.

Whenever Mikyla and Emily kiss, she feels…

She doesn't know how she feels, but she just doesn't want Mikyla and her perfectly peacock-like hands all over her, kissing her softly, like the sound of a shell to an ear. She doesn't want Mikyla _being_ with her, because Emily isn't hers, surely. Emily and Alison ran away to be with each other. They ran away so they could be with each other forever.

So Ali makes her leave—like she once made Hanny hefty, and Mona a loser, and Lucas a hermie—she used her experience to do just that, make Mikyla leave. It's easy when the old Ali returns, in a sense, the old Ali is now stronger, invincible, and the Ali that everybody— _everybody_ —feared returns. Just like that.

" _I'm sorry, sweetie,"_ Alison smiles her way to the door, Mikyla red-faced, sobbing—Ali smiles sickly, and opens the door up, cueing her exit. Alison smiles, and smiles, and smiles—right up until she closes that wretched door, and reminisces. " _I'm sorry, Em. I am, I am, I am."_

 **::**

Emily cries for exactly two days straight. Ali knows this, because she heard her—each sob raspy, each sob longing, and she tried— _she tried_ —to ignore this. But some things just can't be left alone.

The sun sets, but Ali doesn't see it; she doesn't see all the pearly swirls of pink and white and red and orange—instead, Alison does nothing.

It is the day after when Emily starts to pack up. Ali knocks on her door, and Emily shuts her out, shooting her down, ignoring, ignoring.

She keeps up with the ignoring—right until she finishes the packing. She bustles past Ali and her pancakes, all the way to the door. She ignores, she ignores, and Ali has never felt so empty.

" _Where are you going?"_ asks Ali, even if she knows the answer already. _"We haven't decided on anything, have we?"_

 _"You sure decided that Mikyla had to leave,"_ grouses Emily, and she rolls her eyes as Ali makes toward her, trying to stop her from leaving. (It fails—it fails miserably, because Emily makes her feel like drowning again.) _"I mean, maybe you could consider that we use_ modern technology _in 2013. Mikyla told me every little detail of what happened two days ago."_

 _"You're still in contact with her?"_ The old Ali—the old Ali is coming back, yet again.

 _"Well, that's beside the point, isn't it?"_ Emily scoffs. _"I thought you were done letting yourself walk all over people like you were the fucking queen. I thought you_ changed _—I thought you changed back_ then _, but clearly, you_ haven't _, and I'm leaving."_

 _"Emily…"_ Ali pleads, but Emily jerks away, and Ali looks down, as if she's just been slapped. This wasn't how it was supposed to end like—she wasn't thinking, she wasn't, she wasn't. She was just scared—frightened—fucking _terrified_ —of even so much the mere _thought_ of having to let Emily go, and she panicked. _"Please… I'm sorry, Em, I'm—"_

 _"Look, save your breath for the next girl you decide to manipulate,"_ Emily raises her voice.

 _"I can call her back—I can tell her that I'm sorry, because I_ am—"

" _You just don't get it, do you, Ali?"_ Emily shakes her head disbelievingly at her, and pulls the suitcase to a stop beside her. The hand grasping onto the doorknob reaches back down to her side, and _wisps of hope_ unravel inside of Alison—but then it shatters, because Emily shatters it, she shatters her whole world. " _I don't care if you want to bring her back, or if you're sorry—okay, I_ don't _fucking care. What I want to say is, Ali, is that you don't know when to stop. You never did, and you never will,"_ She stops, and a pregnant pause passes between them. _"You don't_ understand _, that we all have feelings, too. Well, guess what—"_ Emily picks her suitcase up again, and opens the door with a murderous look headed towards Alison. " _I'm done, Ali, I am so_ done _with you."_

Ali doesn't know what to do, so she lets her go.

But then a second passes, and she realizes the initial reason why she got rid of Mikyla— _because she doesn't ever want to lose Emily_. And so Alison follows after, and she runs, and she runs, and she runs, and doesn't stop.

 _"I love you!"_ she screams, she shouts, she says it so loud, surely the heavens can hear. If the stars shift, if constellations change, she is not surprised, but she _doesn't_ care—she needs to know if Emily really is done with her. _"Emily, don't you understand?"_

 _"I understand alright,"_ Emily appears from nowhere, tears streaming down her face as if they were born to. Her brown eyes are so clouded, and sad, yet beautiful, and blazing. " _I understand—but you don't, Ali,"_ Emily gestures to behind them, the dusty ground, the swaying trees, the blue skies. _"What is the reason why I came with you, to run away?"_

Ali doesn't answer, because she is too deep in thought.

Emily answers instead, " _Because we were going to be running away_ forever _, we were going to be together,_ forever _. Sure, I really, really liked Mikyla—maybe I could even love her_ if I tried _—but you'll always be first, Alison. You're my best friend, my first… everything, really! And I came here, because we were going to be together forever."_

She turns away, tugging her suitcase behind her, and that's when it all snaps. (It snapped years ago, really, when they were in the library, at fifteen.)

Alison sprints and grabs hold of Emily's hand, pulling it back. Her bag lands with a _clink_ on the ground, and they are left in the contrast of light and dark, good and evil, staring so deep into each other's eyes, getting lost, then getting fight.

And then Ali fills in the gap between the two, and they kiss until the sun goes down.

 **::**

Ali takes her to Paris next. It's perfect.

They stand and watch nightfall, and they listen to the sweet melodies of the operas, and they dance freezing in the cold, yet lighting the fire, in the Riviera. They kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower, and a chapter closes, and a new one opens.

Ali calls love the silver stepping stones—over the seas of hatred, and anger, and greed, one by one, they step over them, onto the glittering sunlight, watching the orange mix with the red, watching it all. Sometimes, the stepping stone collapses, but that's okay, because it always will be okay.

It is moments like this, when they are sitting at the top of the hill, watching the lights of each car turn on and then off as they cross under the bridge, watching the Eiffel Tower as people get on and then off from their love-fest, when she wonders if _forever_ is enough.

 **::**

Alison likes to watch the sunset. It's a beautiful sight, like an oil painting, a fairytale, a happy ending—the lights are all incandescent in the way she loves it to be, and the orange meets the red as the pink meets the white, and they coalesce, and a fire starts. Emily is by her side, as their fingers trace after the creamy swirls, all curving around each star, as they burn in the fire—that's when she realises that it's a beautiful sight, and much, much more.

 _"Forever is a long time, you know,"_ whispers Emily, her lips pressed against her ear. " _Do you think we can keep up?"_

 _"I don't know,"_ Alison answers, and with her fingertips, she creates a pattern all the way from her cheekbones to her thighs. _"But we can try."_

* * *

 **fin.**


End file.
